A Tangled Mess
by inbox
Summary: Long an unwilling slave of Caesar, Arcade Gannon is confronted by a face he thought he'd never see again. A continuation of Like The Dog You Are and Ten Golden Coins.


**A Tangled Mess**  
A small moment of retcon: if you've read _Like The Dog You Are_, consider the last paragraph of that story scrubbed. It helps if you've read_ Ten Golden Coins_, but it isn't necessary for your understanding of this story.

* * *

Arcade loathed Flagstaff. For someone raised in the cool breezes and temperate climate of the core region coast, the dry air was intolerable and the frequent storms and bouts of snow were worse. He'd good-naturedly bitched and complained about the still air and warm nights in the Follower's compound but the weather there was a veritable paradise compared to the spirit-destroying unreliability of Arizona. The air tonight was heavy and still, already making his collar stick to his neck.

He sighed a little and pulled a comb through his hair, idly reminding himself to get it cut tomorrow. His owner got a little testy when Arcade let his appearance slide - "I personally don't give a shit what you look like but as long as you're out in public as my property, you're going to keep yourself goddamn immaculate." - and hair long enough to curl over his collar meant that he'd inevitably be lectured about taking pride in oneself.  
A slave being lectured on taking pride in himself. You could almost slice the irony up and serve it as a side dish.

There was a special meal on tonight. Key centurions and regional administrators from all of Caesar's lands were returning to Flagstaff to celebrate their successes and downplay their failures. He'd already been pulled aside and given specific instructions about how to behave, reaffirming protocol and manners and all the other endless niggles and rules that he'd come to wryly think of as his wifely expectations. All that was missing was the instruction to hand around a tray of canapes.

Playing the part of Caesar's worldly companion, pasting on an appropriate fake smile, speaking only when spoken to and the other myriad tiny assaults to his dignity... as much as he hated it with every shred of his soul, it was a far sight better than living in the pens and being used as screaming live bait in dog fights.

He caught the eye of the guard lounging against the doorframe and pulled a face. Alban was a good man, despite his job and his station and his blind dedication to the Legion, and if circumstances were different – and there wasn't a constant threat of being strung up like some macabre puppet just for even having such thoughts – Arcade privately thought he'd be worthy of a good old fashioned unrequited crush, mild dose of Stockholm Syndrome not withstanding. In the meantime he was thoughtful and considerate and as long as Arcade didn't push his boundaries too hard, was content to be Arcade's shadow rather than his gatekeeper.

"Looking sharp, Arcade."

"Flatterer." He polished his glasses clean on his shirt before indicating that he was ready to leave, ready for an evening of smiling politely and biting his tongue.

* * *

It was a sad indictment that the main thing Arcade could think of to complain about right then was that he'd eaten too much rich food too quickly and was feeling the worse for wear for it. He'd been seated behind Caesar and Lucius, thinking all the while that it wasn't completely unlike being banished to the children's table at a dinner party, and Lucius had been been more generous than usual in passing back extra meat and fruit. Three days previously Arcade had provided him with some off the books treatment for an injury sustained when someone had contested Lucius for his position, and silent gratitude tended to flow in the form of extra treats and entertainment.

The now-empty room was cloyingly hot and the smell of fatty meat clung to his nose, and Arcade fought the urge to pick irritably at his collar. His throat was parched after being thoroughly grilled on everything he'd heard and seen all evening, and Caesar sometimes got a little kick out of making him talk until his voice gave out. He slumped in his chair a little, wishing for an early dismissal so he could vanish back to his quarters and do... well, do nothing, but do nothing in what passed for his own tiny little slice of semi-privacy.

"I heard Atellus talking about a captured prisoner," he ventured.

Caesar barely looked up. "Someone chancing their luck. He's a good catch though. By my estimates he's executed a dozen of my finest officers in the past six months."

_Bravo_, thought Arcade. Out loud he made half-hearted noises of disapproval and asked how such a thing could happen.

"Assassination. Wears NCR colours. Atellus said the patches on his shirt were a sharpshooter squad. I'm hoping one of our more, hah, enthusiastic Frumentarii can get his name so I can find out if he's still serving or not."

"And if he is?"

"I think sending back the pieces in a bearskin would be suitably poetic, don't you think?"

There was an uncomfortable cold feeling steadily growing in the pit of Arcade's stomach. The rate of coincidence would be astronomical, but then again, he'd previously thought that being sold into slavery by a money-hungry fascist bitch was a pretty remote possibility as well. He stalled for time, debating how to press for more information without showing his hand. The brief moment of silence didn't pass Caesar's notice and he glanced up with a questioning look.

"Someone you might know?"

Arcade toyed with the fork by his plate and shrugged, his face carefully schooled into neutrality. "I doubt it. No one is planning on rescuing this fair prince from his captor."

Caesar reached across the table and propped Arcade's chin up with the flat of his knife, the angle forcing him to meet his eyes. The metal was warm against his skin as he swallowed reflexively, fighting the instinct to recoil backwards. Caesar stared coolly at him for a long moment before, apparently satisfied, withdrawing his knife back to the safety of the other table. Arcade swallowed again.

"You have a bad poker face, my dear friend," Caesar said softly. He glanced out the window before nodding at one of his personal guards. "Go down to the holding pens. Find out his name. If you decide tonight is when you're finally attempt to become better at lying, we'll have a pleasantly long discussion about your privileges."

Arcade all but scurried out of the room, abandoning dignity in favour of speed. Never mind that Caesar was only holding a butter knife that could barely slice bread. A knife will always be a knife, and even the bluntest blade feels razor sharp when it's held so close to your throat.

* * *

The holding pens are a foul place to be. Slaves scrub them clean daily and all new arrivals are deloused with bleach and drenched with water almost hot enough to blister, but the baleful stink of futility hangs over it like a cloud. It makes Arcade's skin crawl every time he passes them, keenly aware that it's only being in Caesar's good graces keeping him from a life of physical slavery rather than intellectual servitude.

The place looks worse at night. Harsh floodlights make the chain-link fences stark against the darkness, and the bright patches of light only serve to make the blackness deep inside the pens more absolute.

Arcade wanted to turn to Alban and go, _can't you see what this is? Can't you see that this is wrong?_, but he knew it was completely futile. Alban has known nothing but this his entire life and it's through sheer experience that Arcade knows that any attempt to force another perspective on him only leads to being ignored or being dragged in front of Caesar or, worst of all, Alban's knee against his throat and the sensation of struggling for breath until he passes out. More than once he's sunk into the darkness as a sad voice tells him that he wishes Arcade didn't keep making him do this. Inside his own head Arcade always says _I wish you didn't make me have to do this either._

A woman was crying softly in the nearest pen, the hitching sob of someone in pain. He glanced back at Alban who firmly shook his head. Sometimes the art of reading Caesar's instructions was understanding what _wasn't_ said. The unspoken instruction tonight was the he wasn't to attend to anyone but the Legion's latest mystery prize.

He was much thinner than Arcade remembered. He had a vague memory of solid shoulders and a strong neck, but the man leaning against the back wall was ropey and hollowed, the look of someone permanently underfed and overexercised. The eyes were the same though. Flat, dead eyes, like someone who was patiently waiting for the end.

"Reckon I know who you are," he said. The voice was raspy and coarser than he remembered, as if he'd sustained heavy damage to his throat a long time ago.

"I think I'd recognise that thousand yard stare anywhere." Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced back at Alban. "Can I have a few minutes?"

Alban looked uncertain. "Arcade…"

"Ten minutes. You can say he wouldn't talk unless we're alone. Alban, _please_." He didn't care that he was pleading like a small boy.

"You know I can't." He looked genuinely sorry. "Arcade, I let you get away with too much as it is."

"Transfer him then. Put him in an isolation room. Hell, put him in my quarters." Arcade knew he was sounding faintly hysterical now and Alban was watching him warily, ready to call in the rough, meaner soldiers that patrolled the holding pens.

"Arcade, be quiet. You're making a scene." His hand dropped to the pistol on his hip, an unspoken warning to behave.

It was pathetic to fold so easily, a grown man crumpling like he was being berated by an irate parent. Arcade knew that, like so many things, it was about playing the numbers, unwilling to push his luck when there were so many unknown soldiers around who didn't have a reasonable bone in their body and little regard for some mouthy slave on a jaunt down from Caesar's compound.

He just genuinely didn't want to end up with his face ground into the concrete before he had a chance to ask Craig Boone exactly what the hell he was doing all the way out here in Arizona.

* * *

To say that Arcade loathes Vulpes Inculta is a kind of world-encompassing feat of understatement. His mere presence made Arcade's fists itch and that thin, reedy voice was like nails on the chalkboard of Arcade's very soul. Ever since Vulpes had returned to Flagstaff he was a frequent if not daily bane in Arcade's life, and the only person who could consistently aggravate Arcade to the point of violence.

It was one thing for Arcade to needle everyone around him in a constant effort to keep himself above the grey mental sludge of despair, but quite another thing to have someone around who could needle him back twice as effectively. Arcade knew where people's mental pressure points were, but Vulpes Inculta knew how to apply the clamps.

That finely tuned sixth sense for interesting activity had led to his almost immediate appearance, a slight figure striding down the holding pen walkway to stand toe to toe with Arcade. He didn't mind that the blond doctor towered over him. You don't need physical presence when you have carte blanche to do whatever needs to be done to whoever it needs to be done _to_.

"You want alone time with this profligate, Gannon? That's highly suspicious. You know the Legion looks down on such sordid behaviour."

Arcade gritted his teeth, knowing that the slightest physical attempt on the smug little rat would leave him suffering ten times over. "Don't press your degenerate fantasies on me, you lunatic. I'm merely asking it as a favour."

Vulpes shrugged. "You have nothing to bargain with."

"Your wife," said Arcade triumphantly. "She's pregnant, isn't she? Small woman. Little hips. I've been told she's having twins. It's a risky business, birth. So many things that can go wrong."

"That's none of your business to know, slave."

Arcade knew he was skating on thin ice, the cracks splintering and jagging under his metaphorical feet. It was worth a shot though. He needed a bit of his old life back. He needed a few minutes alone with someone who knew him as a real person, someone capable of independent actions and a free mind. Never mind that he and Boone had barely exchanged a dozen words with each other before he was sold. It was all for purely selfish reasons, and if it bought Boone a little bit of time, well, that was just a bonus.

"I'll ask Caesar to let me attend her. It'll be a gift for his most worthy spy." Arcade's voice dropped into a wheedling tone and he wondered what this give and take looked like to an outsider like Boone. "A small mercy in exchange for a safe birth, Vulpes. Two healthy children ripe and ready for brainwashing are worth it, don't you agree?"

"You're taking advantage of your position."

"And you're benefiting from it."

There was a long, tense moment before Vulpes shook his head in resignation. "If one of the children die, I'll string you up myself."

"As tempting as the offer is, I'll see to it that both enter the world as ugly and squalling as their father." He stuck out his hand and Vulpes shook it, his grip always so unexpectedly strong. It'd taken Arcade months to get used to what he considered the useless trappings of Legion life – shaking hands on a deal, the countless marks of respect, the endless waves of protocol – but, as Caesar had bluntly told him, it's all about showing respect. _A little bit of honey makes the whole thing easier to swallow, don't you agree?_

Vulpes looked genuinely amused. "Fifteen minutes. Don't try to do anything clever. Come and see me tomorrow once you've, ha, extracted all the information you want from him." He nodded at Alban who snapped to attention. "You. Watch both of them. If they attempt anything foolish, well... I'm sure Caesar will understand."

* * *

"Have you eaten?"

"Think it was bread. Could do with some water though."

A pleading look at Alban sorted that quickly. He pulled a bottle of water from his personal belongings and handed it over with a muttered warning to never ever, _ever_ let anyone know he had done this for Arcade.

He slid down the wall and sat on the cool concrete floor, Boone fidgeting for a moment before joining him. His boots were almost worn through, the laces cut away by the guards when he'd been processed in. Boone still had a reek of bleach on his skin, Arcade catching the occasional breath of it as he shifted restlessly. A patina of dust and mud and blood stained his boots and Arcade's own boots, the ones kept polished for special evenings like tonight, looked brand new in comparison.

"Boone…"

"Are you here by choice?"

The interruption caught Arcade by surprise. "What? God no. I'm a…" and here he floundered, not wanted to actually confess what he was. A slave. A spoilt, well-fed, somewhat pampered pet, but a slave nonetheless. "…I'm not here by choice," he finished lamely.

Boone glanced at him, and Arcade knew he was taking in his clean clothes, the fat spreading around his middle, his well-scrubbed appearance. The moment of shame at what he must look like was quickly eclipsed by a flash of… hurt? Anger? He settled for annoyance.

"It's not like I haven't tried to do something about it." He glanced at Alban who made a show of staring at the ceiling. "I'm not you, Boone. I can't just melt into the wastes. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"I know," said Boone. "I understand."

He couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "Honestly? I thought you'd be trying to kill me right now for comforting the enemy."

Boone raised an eyebrow and Arcade hurriedly clarified his statement. "Oh no, no no. Don't get any ideas. I'm strictly here to be an amusing gimmick at parties and a source of intellectual masturbation for-" he nearly said 'a paranoid delusional maniac' but held his tongue solely for the sake of Alban, not wishing to inspire an argument later, "-Caesar. There's a little light doctoring here and there, but treating syphilis in the Great and Good isn't exactly worth noting in my social diary."

Shuffling a little, Boone inspected his fingernails and cleared his throat, a rattling wheeze accompanying the sound. "I didn't know you were here, Gannon. No one did."

It'd taken a long time for Arcade to accept that he'd essentially been erased from the face of the civilised world, but it still smart like hell when someone else came to the same conclusion. He was going to say something extra pithy but instead settled for a shrug, not wanting to waste more time crying over his troubles like a weepy schoolgirl.

"I wasn't expecting a knight in shining armour. It's... it's fine. Don't worry about it. You know me, I muddle along."

There was a long pause.

"Should I ask what happened to you?"

Boone grunted non-committally. "When, then or now? Then, I got ambushed as some kind of reward for that bitch. She handed me across the river. Lucked out that night with a sympathetic slave who cut me free before I got strung up. Lived off the land for a bit, fell back into California, raised enough cash to buy a good rifle."

"And?" Arcade already knew what he was going to say.

"And I blew off her pretty face. Hunted her down north of Reno and put her down. Now, I just made a stupid green mistake. Shot some cattle at a ranch near Catalina, got caught and handed over. Here I am."

Arcade's voice was quiet. "It's not the ending you wanted." It wasn't a question.

"Nope. Not nearly enough blood on my hands."

"I heard a dozen."

Boone laughed, the sound almost ghoul-like as it filtered through his wrecked throat. "Is that all? Someone else is taking my credit." He grinned, baring his teeth. "It's eighteen by my count. Nineteen, maybe twenty if my surprise in Benson is found any time soon. You?"

"I was sold for a humiliatingly small amount of money for a lifetime of being a perpetually indentured doctor and unwilling debate partner. You got to fight. Me, I got to open up a madman's head as a room full of psychopaths aimed Ballistic Fists at my kidneys."

Alban coughed meaningfully and Arcade waved him away, mentally adding that transgression to his tally of sins tonight. "You can discipline me for that later. Look, hand me over to Vulpes on charges of dissent. It'll look good on your file and it'll make him happy."

"Your time is nearly up, Arcade," said Alban softly. "You've only got a couple of minutes."

* * *

It had been hard to tear himself away from the small concrete room, doubly so after he put out his hand to shake Boone's – and the ingrained Legion habit annoyed him even more than usual – and had been caught off guard when Boone seized his hand and pull him forward into a bone-crushing hug. The simple contact was like pure ambrosia after months of barely encountering human touch and Arcade had relished in the simple pleasure of it.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid," Arcade had murmured into his ear. "Caesar appreciates reckless bravery. It's not much of a life but it's a life, Boone. _Promise me._"

Boone hadn't said anything, just squeezed a little tighter before letting go. His eyes, normally so flat and emotionless, had a spark of something new burning deep within them.

* * *

It felt like forever before Arcade was permitted to speak freely to Caesar, and his impatience did pass unnoticed as he pushed his breakfast around his plate.

"Pining over your lost love, slave?"

Arcade's grip tightened around his fork. "I don't know, Vulpes. I was more thinking about how to call in sick when your wife drops those mutts she's carrying. Have you figured out who the father is yet?"

There was a volley of acidic sniping back and forth across the table that only ground to a half when Caesar bluntly told them to knock it off and tell him what he'd found out last night.

He'd mulled over Boone's situation over last night, rolling ideas around his head until he'd managed to confuse himself further. Caesar hated insubordination, and blowing the heads off his choicest officers was fairly spectacular as far as insubordination went. But! He admired reckless bravery when it was tempered with results though, and Vulpes was living proof of that. He loathed what Boone represented, but he had a soft spot for zealotry. It was a tangled mess at best.

"His name is Craig Boone. He's ex-NCR, and Atellus was correct. He's from a sniper unit. I knew him. Not particularly well, but we were both... hired by the same employer."

"Oh, yes. The woman who sold you on a whim and then sent him away for crucifixion because she couldn't think of anything else to do with him. A fine specimen. I rather liked her despite her gender handicap."

"Vulpes..." Caesar was bordering on the edge of irritation, and the spy airily waved for Arcade to continue.

"He's a free agent. He's working to his own agenda. He's..." Arcade took a deep breath, launching himself into the deepest of deep ends. "Do you remember Ranger Stella back at the Fort? This man is twice the fighter she is. I've seen him hack apart raiders with a blunt knife and he barely needed a stimpack afterwards. Keep him alive, make him a pit fighter. He's so much more valuable alive than he is dead."

There was a sideways look exchanged across the table and Arcade ground to a halt. Vulpes opened his mouth but was waved into silence by Caesar. "Your friend is impressive, Arcade. Your ideas aren't too far off what I had planned for him, but-," he paused to take a long drink of water, "-he started a fight last night right after you left. Broke the arm of one of the best guards there and knocked another one out. He's a sharp one. He must've been planning the entire time you were talking."

There was a horrible taste of tin developing under Arcade's tongue and he numbly pressed his water glass to his lips, ignoring the excess that trickled down his chin.

"Can't let that kind of behaviour go unpunished, slave," said Vulpes _sotto voce_. "He went up on the cross right as you were going to your nice warm bed. By the way, my wife sends her regards and accepts your offer of help with the childbirth."

The triumph written across Vulpes's face was ugly as sin.

Arcade chafed in his seat, desperate to be allowed to go and... do what? He had returned to his room around ten last night. Judging by the sky outside it was getting past eight, and Boone had been unceremoniously strung up on a cross for ten hours now. If he was still alive he was well past the point where he could be cared for. Arcade's stomach churned, threatening to expel his breakfast.

"In a hurry to get somewhere?"

The urge to leap over the table and ram his fist into Vulpes's teeth was almost overpowering, and the fact that he managed to remain seated was a triumph of his own willpower. "I thought I'd take a stroll," he said through gritted teeth. "Maybe see how my last friend in the world is enjoying the view from twelve feet up."

Vulpes chuckled. "I'd hurry if I was you. Last I saw the guard he knocked out was taking a little retribution in the form of breaking his legs."

The rule is that Arcade can only leave when Caesar explicitly dismisses, and when an indolent wave gives him permission to leave he stood up fast enough that his chair scraped back across the flagstones with a loud screech. His evening guard, sleepy at the end of his shift, was almost bowled over as Arcade pushed past him and ran down to his quarters.

Alban was already there, leaning against the stucco outside Arcade's room and patiently waiting to hand over shifts. The brief moment of bureaucracy was the perfect distraction and Arcade took full advantage of it, ignoring the two guards outside as he dug through his cupboard, seeking the tiny stash of purloined medicine he'd carefully hidden away over the months. He'd smuggled little vials of Med-X once he'd earned the right to not be patted down and searched constantly, stashing them away for reasons he'd yet to fully justify to himself.

After a moment of hesitation he pulled out his Followers doctors coat from deep in the cupboard as well, the cotton turning yellow along the folds where it had been put away well over a year ago. It was probably a silly moment of superstition on his behalf, but something about it made him feel temporarily more capable and confident.

He was shrugging on the coat, mindful of the two vials of Med-X in his trouser pocket, when Alban stuck his head around the door.

"I can guess where you want to go," he said quietly. "Arcade... I had no idea."

"It's fine," he said tightly, shouldering past Alban and not particularly caring that he pushed the other man into the doorframe. "I would just rather do something good for someone good, all right? I just want one last bit of something positive before you people grind the humanity out of me forever."

Alban didn't say anything, but silently shadowed Arcade's heels as they made their way across the city to the Golgotha that ran parallel to the main highway into town.

* * *

"Had better hospitality, no lie 'bout that."

The stink of infected flesh and rotting meat mixed with the reek of dozens of bodies, alive and dead alike, releasing the contents of their bowels. As far as grim reminders went for travellers and traders entering Flagstaff that obeying the rules was a good idea, the field of crosses was more than effective. The smell wrapped around Arcade like a dank blanket, overwhelming his nose and leaving an oily, alkaline taste coating his throat. He spat in an effort to clear his mouth.

"My manners aren't that bad," croaked Boone. "Wasn't planning on shitting myself 'til after you left."

Arcade shadowed his eyes and looked up at Boone. "All this time I've known you and you only decide to show your sense of humour now?"

"M'full of surprises." Boone's head lolled heavily as he tried to focus on Arcade, his breath a wheezing rasp. "Guess it's a bit late for it now, but if I'd known you were here..."

Arcade's throat felt tight and it took a couple of attempts for his words to form. "It's fine. It's... it's fine. I'm sorry it had to end like this, Boone."

He turned to Alban, his face unreadable. "I need to do something."

"I know, Arcade. It's just..." Alban pushed his hand through his hair, looking stricken. "They'll move me off your detail. No one else is going to let you get away with half as a much as I do."

"Do I look like I care?" hissed Arcade. His voice got higher and tighter as he spoke and he took a step towards the guard, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. "I am infinitely beyond caring about extra books at this moment. _B__ellum omnium contra omnes_ is all well and good when you read about in theory, but I've been living it for over a year now and I'm at the end of my rope when it comes to dealing with you pack of blind-eyed, brainwashed, delusional fools." His voice cracked.

The backhand Alban gave him across the face was enough to send him staggering backwards. The guard massaged the back of his hand, carefully schooling his voice into a semblance of calm. "I'm going to pretend that we didn't just have that discussion, Arcade. I know you're going to do something that I don't need to see, so I'm giving you exactly one minute to do whatever it is." He rubbed at his neck and, with a slight nod, turned his back. The gesture would've been more noble if his hand wasn't firmly on the grip of the pistol at his belt.

It only took the work of a moment to uncap and prep the delicate glass syringes and Arcade stared up at Boone. "How's the pain?"

"Think there's so much of that I don't know where to start."

From this position Arcade could only reach Boone's bare feet, and he carefully injected two full vials of Med-X between his toes, hoping he'd been able to hit at least one delicate little digital artery. His anatomy had always been a little rusty. "One for pain," he said, "and two for sleep."

"Wish I'd known," repeated Boone. "Would've given me a bit more purpose."

"My hero. Saving me from my prison."

Boone squinted down, his limited movement already being noticeably impacted by the heavy-duty painkillers beginning to flood his system. "Always had a weakness for a blonde in distress."

Despite himself, Arcade laughed. "Charmer. I know I'm not your type."

He dropped the vials to the ground and broke them with the heel of his boot, the glass delicately shattering against the stony soil. When he looked up Alban was watching him with a thoughtful look.

Arcade shrugged, exhausted. "So add illegal medicine to my list of crimes."

"What medicine," said Alban neutrally, and Arcade could've hugged him.

It was midday when Boone died. It perhaps wasn't the violent, blood soaked death he'd planned for himself all those years ago when he'd lost the will to live, but Arcade thought he'd died nobly regardless. He and Alban stayed with him until his breathing faded into stillness, the sun beating down from high in the brilliant blue sky.

They stood there amongst the stink and sadness until Arcade sighed and shrugged off his coat. "I guess it's time to return to the cage."

"I guess so," agreed Alban, his voice quiet. "I'm sorry, Arcade."

They walked back in silence, Arcade's head full of thoughts about the remaining vials of painkillers, the set of fine surgical tools he'd smuggled and hidden under his mattress, about timing and making his own destiny.

"Dare I ask what you're thinking?"

Arcade merely smiled as they passed through the gate into Caesar's compound, his teeth shining brightly in the shade. "Just thinking about Cato. Cato and luck."

* * *

Thank you for reading. I genuinely welcome any concrit or feedback or just plain comments about this story as it was somewhat challenging to actually publish in the first place. After all, it hurts to be so unkind to characters you're so fond of.

Edit: added in the formatting that somehow managed to strip away even after I double checked it. It should be a _lot_ more readable now.

- inbox


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